Always, almost.
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oozey mess
trying on a metaphor
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occasionally subtle

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PUT YOUR BEARD IN MY MOUTH
AnasAbdin

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Aqua Utopia|海の底で記憶を紡ぐ
Mike Driver
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@circadeacademia
Always, almost.
Love, grief, and magic in the mundane
1- @Bluewmist on Twitter / 2- Roly Poly is Taken on Twitter / 3- About Time (2012) by Richard Curtis, image from Mita Park on Unsplash / 4- Sherri Turner on Twitter / 5- Cold Solace by Anna Belle Kaufman / 6- The Anthropocene Reviewed by John Green
the voices in my head tell me to quadruple the amount of garlic required for any recipe. and i listen
Anaïs Nin, in a diary entry dated 27 February 1929, featured in The Early Diary of Anaïs Nin: Vol. IV, 1927-1931
why do all the words sound heavier in my native language?
— @metamorphesque, Yoojin Grace Wuertz (Mother Tongue), Still Dancing: An Interview With Ilya Kaminsky (by Garth Greenwell), Jhumpa Lahiri (Translating Myself and Others), @lifeinpoetry
Before me, all my girls
there's this world where my mother is a pesky little girl.
wildflowers glistening on her midnight helices,
stygian locks frolicking over her honey coated face
and no one has taught her to care for things yet.
there's this town where my mother is a frisky ickle menace.
a peckish summer on the roof of her tongue,
where the sun dims before her 24k gleam
and no one has told her how to behave yet.
there's this house where my mother is her mother's child.
she hasn't learnt to soak in the rain,
she hasn't seen the butterflies dead
and not even her mother dared to show her yet.
I meet my mother at her childhood home.
I don't ask to comb her hair, I don't frown at the dirt under her feet —
I lend her honeyed words to help the venom go down that she's yet to accumulate.
I wrap her heart in the coziest blanket before even the first shiver touches her spine.
there's this world where she's not a mother yet
she's the girl I've searched for my entire life
long before the world chained her fate
and put a curse of womanhood on her limbs….
I meet my mother, her mother, all the mothers before them
to heal.
to dig up the hole I was buried in.
to say “I wish your mother understood you.”
I look for all the girls bound by blood
and tangled roots of their wombs
I uproot their world, their home
and scream at the top of my lungs, “that's my girl!”
— circadeacademia
I am earth's debt
I am but not one with roots deep
into the soil of motherly love,
I am not some forest with fire kissed locks
not an ancient tree, neither do I carry
eons of life debt upon my shoulder…
I am but a seed uprooted in heavy storm
sole witness to my displaced burial ~
an untimely bloom of dirt
I am not one to touch the sky,
not one to climb ribcages of this weary world….
I am no mother, I am no children
I am not one with a blessed existence.
but I am here.
like a half remembered dream,
like a faded hope, like an almost
I am here.
I am not one of you.
but my tears soak the ground,
my blood feeds the soil just the same….
my footprints upon the forest bed
a pondering moon over my head
the dirt under my fingernails,
the rot, the bloom, the wildness —
is here. and so am I.
I am no heaven. I am no hell.
I am but life, I am but death.
not one of you, but all of earth's debt.
— circadeacademia
Soft-Feeling Latin Words & Phrases
Another list of Latin phrases, this time with soft/warm meanings. It is 2:39am as I make this list.
a te pro te: from thee for thee
ab imo pectore: from the bottom of the heart
volat hora per orbem: time files through the world
coelum versus: heavenward
concubia nocte: at dead of night
crepusculum: twilight or dusk
crescens luna: a cresent moon
cum corde: with the heart
labores solis: an eclipse of the sun
in horam viviere: to live for the moment
in rerum natura: in the nature of things
in tuto esse: in a safe place
ingens aequor: the vast ocean
inter vivos: among the living
januae mentis: inlets of knowledge
jenuis clausis: in secret, with closed doors
littera scripta manet: the written letter remains
lux mundi: light of the world
lux vitae: light of life
meo voto: by my wish
mox nox: soon night
multis cum lacrimis: with many tears
ningit: it is snowing
occidui temporis umbra: a shadow at sunset
opinio vana: an illusion
osculum pacis: kiss of peace
papilio: butterfly
par pari refero: tit for tat
per vian dolorosam: the way of sorrows
philtrum: a love potion
pluvia: rain
res rustica: a rural affair
ros marinus: rosemary
semel et semper: once and always
silva: wood or forest
sinus urbis: heart of the city
As always, happy writing!
─── ・ 。゚☆: *.☽ .* . ───
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💎Before you ask, check out my masterpost part 1 and part 2
Reference: Latin for the Illiterati: a modern guide to an ancient language by Jon R. Stone, second edition 2009.
Icarus, I know how it felt
I too, was a sunflower once
a summer song, a bard in motion.
I too, longed to be kissed by poems
to be fallen apart, crumbled against the palms like golden dust….
I too, inked moth’s madness onto my skin
chained my fate with ember sparks.
melted wax running down my shoulders
like sweet release of an angel's sin,
my ablaze skin
death's breath against my chin
but the fire that never really burnt out
was fuelled by the flames of my heart.
had the dead dreaming of the fireflies
ripped open my ribcage;
had the song of ocean turned my world upside down
had this bizarre triumph condemned me
to you for my heaven and inferno;
had my twisted fate, been a second too slow
I would've plummeted a supernova from the sky….
ruins of my hubris rained like burnt crystals
warped out of shape and time
was it my destiny to drown?
half ashes, half ocean in my lungs?
was it laugh of a madman?
echoing as I danced my way down?
one kiss. heaven’s venomous lips.
fallen. from one blue to the other.
to steal moment's golden bliss.
was it love? or damnation of a poet?
I know how it felt.
to long the eternity once for myself.
— circadeacademia
A list poem on things worse than death
i. I'm painting my lips with the brightest red of life. it's bleeding into my mouth, staining my teeth. it tastes rancid and sits on my gut.
ii. I drug my feral heart every fortnight. cleanse the lovesick blood with my favourite poison. your eyes are deeper than the trench of my self deprivation.
iii. I visited the grave of my childhood yet again. it was right beneath my home where I buried it last. it's growing roots now, crushing my bones.
iv. My mirror's eyes are haunting me. I might kill it soon.
v. The walls are speaking to me. they speak a tongue of memories I can't recall anymore.
vi. I must've smeared my lips against my heart. It's taking over veins and screaming in plasmic angst.
vii. My parents raised a hellhound. It chewed its way out of the belly button. they named it sweetheart and fed trauma in flesh.
viii. Grief is stuck in my unreachable zones. in my gray matter, in my lungs. I forgot breathing, I unlearned thinking. but how do I shed my pericardium?
ix. And when I asked, even death betrayed.
— circadeacademia
Is somebody gonna match my grief?
I've been a sad… sad girl.
I'm one part atlantis, two parts ocean. tell me, is my voice blue enough to dilute this venom under my breath?
there's black ink dribbling down my cheeks, contaminating my river of sanity…. tell me, is my blood sound enough to imagine it's worst memory?
I named my heart after kintsugi, but this rage within is aqua regia — fuming, devouring the last of my dissolved melancholy.
I held the last glass of luck, but I dropped it into the fathomless chasm of my mind.
now I have mirror for eyes, fog for voice. and no gold dipped poetry to reconcile these broken atoms…
I, a lamb raised in a slaughterhouse — have the finest butcher of the famished town on my speed dial.
on a good day, I let him mince my grief to feed my childhood home. after all, it's where I inherited my mother's plasmic anguish and my father's bubble wrapped ego.
I was the virulent disease to the hypochondriac air inside that house. I made it sick with my grief and asked — does my sorrow make you uncomfortable?
I live in a constant state of drowning waves, crashing against the shore of my consciousness. I have two blades for a split tongue, that follows the scent trails of my misery in a garden of foxglove and nightshade.
I can taste the salt in the air, evaporating from my lungs to the ocean….
I've been a sad…. sad girl.
and there's a billion ways to torment me.
my forlorn heart is dragging me down,
is somebody gonna match my grief?
— circadeacademia
An August Confession
The neutral zone between me and august is a secluded fountain of violent desire. it is a bowl of honey dipped sacrificed wishes breathing into penny rust and yassified mold.
august is a man of dishonour.
august is the balm that burns my wounds. august is the goodbye that i keep like barbed wires between my teeth….
because it is inconvenient to give up in august.
I've been starving since the dead of february. but now the redolence of autumn is filling up my lungs and i'm throwing up summer with a lingering stench of spring — to make room for a sugar-coated bullet in my chamber.
i think i'm losing it a little more everyday.
sugar in my blood
lead in my veins ~
this glorious tide of august is just a mild poison and i’ve been immune since my last death day in june.
I smoked a joint with the moon the other day, sent haikus to september with fingerprint hearts.
it said, mama look
august has ruined my thank you
now i live again.
i’m as sentient as the collection of dead letters overflowing my mailbox.
I'm without a muse in august, unable to decipher symphony from the cry of a newborn baby.
august is a bare bodied symmetrical mess — holding summer's eulogy in autumn’s embrace.
august is a liar. ain't no one ever set foot in august and mourned for summer…. ain't no one ever touched august with a pocket full of rusty air and longed to die….
O august, you are born old soul
reeking of sun and burnt moon
your waves overhead, washing the stains away
that summer has painted on me.
O august, you deserve your time as long as a slow blink
for this neutral zone between you & me
has always been hope.
there's not one killer bone under you skin
so stay. stay for a moment & tell me how you've been.
— circadeacademia
The suicidal vampiress
A life sized stone wall between you and me.
but I watch wisteria locks spilling through these chipped rocks to this barren land
and I imagine, love must be the oldest shade of lavender.
I smell the wind blowing from your porch through the black sea —
carrying the same dying wish, drawing its last breath at my doorstep
and I imagine, love must be the deepest shade of gray.
I howl with the wolves in harmony, hoping for the moon to sing a lullaby my age
the morning has sun rays shimmer on the best parts of your face;
and I imagine, love must be the boldest shade of gold.
I might be on top of the food chain, but this yearning to put my heart at stake,
to give it to you in a cold casket, so you can pull a string & beat out of it —
is when I imagine, love must be a desperate red.
I stand guard to this behemoth fortress, soaking in petrichor decay
the sky owes me a summer, but then you brought fireflies into my hollow caves
and I imagine, love must be cerulean in your embrace.
all my youth, drowning in shades of blue in atlantis.
all my ruth, growing wildflowers in crevices of concrete.
all my years borrowed, sprinkling dust under the sun.
all my life, I imagined a rainbow death.
the suicidal vampiress….. they said.
but now I have summer in my bones, now I have the ocean's breath.
the wall between you and me, long fallen
I'm drenched in lavender, gold and gray
I left my cerulean heart at your crimson shrine
and now I'm home. and now I'm sleeping just fine.
— circadeacademia
reblog if you're a writer but would rather drink straight cyanide than show any of your family members your work
Malignancy of swans
Dedication:
to my beloved, to my fragile little cygnet
….nested inside these folded pages….
scar tissues over my lungs from breathing too loud, your fingers imprinted on my ivory neck…. like wheat surrendered to the sun, I too had a perfectly splendid song.
the harmony of night is yet to begin
but my skin too pale & my neck too long
and now even the ghosts are tired of listening to me.
you said your blood needs rest, so I left my heart stranded on top of your wine glass, toasting a half miracle.
crimson patchwork over white plumes;
for you my love. all of it.
phantom limbs over lost wings;
for you my love. all of it.
a baptism in poison water;
for you my love. all of it.
shoulders bleed.
your cygnet did.
for you my love. all of it.
shoulders itch.
midnight's screech birthed onyx feathers
it engulfed my skin, my soul, my dream.
come my love, rest on my lips. have a look at the colour before the glass cuts too deep.
the malignancy of swans has caught up to my neck — let your lullaby be my swan song, let my coal heart dress for the wake.
my love, I do perfect pirouettes over these folded pages as my shadow burns a chasm into their core.
Epilogue:
for my beloved, for my formidable cygnus
…..lingering over these charred pages……
— circadeacademia
A red and white season
I am a shiver down my spine, snow dust on the hemlock tree, woolen knots over my swan neck kind of girl;
a bride's veil over my backyard kind of girl;
homemade chicken soup with spicy ginger kind of girl;
runny nose in dark boots kind of girl; heavy blanket soaking the last warmth of a dying year and crackling fire logs kind of girl.
I am a humming carol, cinnamon talc under my fingernails, cookie crust between my teeth, crafting tales under mistletoe kind of girl.
I am a girl who sends billets-doux to every hill station she can dream of.
I am a december snowflake in deep midwinter, who sucks on the pale sun to ease her throat.
I am a girl with blizzard hollers for her first cry, blowing frozen candles on a numbing night.
I am a solitary rose on pristine ground, a delicate frostling, a runaway maiden from the summer sun.
— circadeacademia